was the toast in every club and _cafe_ of the city.
Every shop window displayed his portrait. All the journals sung his
praises. Maids and matrons sighed for him. Youth and age envied him.
_El Tigre's_ coffers were well-nigh bursting and his cups of joy
overflowing, all but the one none but Sofia could fill.

Where she was at the time _El Tigre_ had no idea. And yet, wholly
unsuspected by him, not only were she and the Duke in Mexico, but both
had attended all his performances at Bucareli, up to the last,
inconspicuous behind parties of friends they entertained in their box.

Whether it was the Duke caught the pallor of Sofia's face in moments of
peril for Mauro, or the light of pride and admiration in her eyes during
his moments of triumph, sure it is the smouldering fires of the Duke's
jealousy were rekindled, and he was prompted to plan a test of her
bearing, when free of the restraint of his presence. On the morning of
the last performance he announced that he must spend the afternoon with
his attorneys, and must leave Sofia free to make her own arrangements for
attendance at the last _corrida_.

And glad enough was she of the chance. The boxes were far too high
above, and distant from, the arena. For days she had coveted any of the
seats along the lower rows of open benches, close down to the six-foot
barrier between the ring and the auditorium, close down where she could
catch every shifting expression of Mauro's mobile face, and--where he
could scarcely fail to see and recognize her. The thought of seeking in
any way to meet or speak to him never entered her clean mind, but she had
been more nearly a saint than a woman if she had been able to deny
herself such an opportunity to convey to him, in one long burning glance,
a knowledge of the endurance of the love her frightened "Mauro _mio_" had
plainly confessed the night of their parting beneath the fig tree. So it
naturally followed that the Duke was barely out of the house before Sofia
rushed away a messenger to reserve a section of the lower benches
immediately beneath the box of the _Presidente_, directly in front of
which Mauro must come, at the head of his _cuadrilla_, to salute the
_Presidente_.

The city was thronged with visitors come to see _El Tigre_. Hotels and
clubs were overflowing with them. And thousands of poor peons had for
months stinted themselves, often even gone hungry, to save enough
_tlacos_ to buy admission to the spectacle,